Sharing the Night Watches
by ficscribbler
Summary: Roxton reaches out to help Marguerite with her nightmares.


**Sharing the Night Watches**

Summary: _Roxton reaches out to help Marguerite with her nightmares._

Disclaimer: _The Lost World does not belong to me. *sigh* It belongs to New Line Television, the Over the Hill Gang, et al, …_

*****

Marguerite wasn't sleeping… again.

Roxton frowned at the flimsy wall - the one that separated their two bedrooms on the lower level of the tree house - listening to her soft footfalls as she paced back and forth next door.

It wasn't that Marguerite was being inconsiderate; on the contrary, he had no doubt that she was being extra quiet, not intending anyone else to even know she was awake. After knowing the woman for nearly three years, he was well aware of Marguerite Krux's moods. She could be one of the most inconsiderate people he'd ever met, despite all his wide travels and experience. But these middle-of-the-night activities weren't simply another case of Marguerite suiting herself at someone else's expense.

He'd thought so at first, of course, the first few times he'd been awakened by her night restlessness in the early weeks of being stranded in the lost world. Annoying as it had been that she'd woken him with her moving around in the wee hours, the real problem was that she stayed abed the mornings after her self-indulgent wakefulness. He wouldn't have cared if she'd chosen to indulge in reading, playing with her gems or merely standing at her window or on the balcony to stargaze during reasonable hours. But her oversleeping caused inconvenient delays for everyone else in the party the next day, affecting everything from eating, to exploring, to accomplishing chores.

Lord John Roxton had taken it on himself to scold her for selfishly indulging in those irregular night sessions. He'd tasked her with being unfair and inconsiderate to the others of the party.

Marguerite, true to form, had haughtily denied his charges and told him to mind his own business. But he'd been satisfied to notice that he hadn't been awakened again by Marguerite's "carelessness".

She'd still overslept regularly, though, until Veronica got fed up and persuaded her otherwise – their hostess had started dumping buckets full of cold water on the sleeping brunette. It had taken about a month of merciless persistence to "cure" the supposedly spoiled heiress of her near constant tendency to sleep in, but Marguerite had learned to get up on time… not as early as the others, perhaps, but at least not so late that it affected everyone else's schedule, too.

They'd all done their fair share of teasing about it, which she'd tolerated better than he expected, and he'd been satisfied… until he discovered that she was still awake at odd hours; she was just being much quieter about it.

He might never have figured it out, he reflected, if not for being so restless himself that night after they'd brought Marguerite home from "Camelot". She'd demonstrated unexpected and inexplicable concern for the young king throughout the strange adventure, to the point of imperiling her own life, jumping in front of the knife meant to kill the boy. Marguerite's unusual selflessness had startled her companions, who hadn't seen such concern for anyone other than herself in the few months they'd known her.

Well … hints of it had made brief appearances, but she'd always excused such incidents as being ultimately in her own best interests.

Yet with Gawain, despite the fact that it hadn't benefited her in any way to help the boy out of the clutches of his chief advisor, the usually self-serving woman had given up a chance to escape the situation so that she could stay at Gawain's side. And her odd altruism had resulted in a nasty flesh wound that had been only inches from being a much more deadly wound.

Lord John Roxton had been shocked at the depth of his own concern for the beautiful heiress when she'd been stabbed in Gawain's stead. Admittedly, he'd been pursuing her - a charming trophy he fully intended to win, he'd boldly proclaimed - and she'd been leading him quite the chase. He hadn't expected to suddenly discover that she'd become far more than just a tempting game to be won.

But when he caught her in his arms after she'd been knifed, and she called him her "knight in shining armor" just before she fainted, he'd realized that he wanted far more from the mysterious, mercenary beauty than a simple affair.

So he'd been restless that first night back at the tree house, concerned for her and puzzled at his own strange emotions. And because he was awake at a time the regular jungle noises were virtually absent, he'd heard the soft footfalls when she suddenly began to pace in her room.

Lord Roxton had risen from his bed and padded barefoot to her doorway, which was covered only with a cloth hanging over the opening, like all the other "doors" in the tree house. He'd easily seen her in the moonlight that shone in her window. Her long, luxurious hair, raven-dark in the unlit room, had been tumbling free about her nearly-bare shoulders and down her back. With her calf-length white silk nightgown swirling about her slender curves - where in the world had she packed such fripperies during the journey?! – Marguerite had seemed like an angel floating across the floor as she paced. But then she'd impatiently flipped her heavy hair back over her shoulders, and he'd seen two things that knocked the angelic image out of his mind.

The first had been the white bandage over the knife wound just below her right collar bone, still showing the reddish stain of blood seepage from that afternoon.

The second startling sight had been the soul-deep, agonized pain on her unguarded face. He'd seen a similar look in her eyes soon after they'd been stranded on the Plateau, when he took the gun out of her hand in the well-named "Cave of Fear" to prevent her from killing herself while under influence of the cave's hallucinogenic fungus. It hadn't been anything as easy to classify as mere physical pain. She never had explained what she'd seen in that place that had caused her to forgo her usual imperative for self-preservation.

Just like when they'd been in that accursed cave, his first instinct upon witnessing the devastated expression on her lovely features that night had been to go to her, take her in his arms and make it all better, whatever it took. He'd assumed that this pain was related somehow to her brush with death that day. Perhaps it had brought back some reminiscence from her past – perhaps memories of whatever caused her to be so untrusting and cynical.

His second instinct, though, had been wiser; even back then he'd known that if he tried to comfort her, Marguerite would've been furious with him for such presumption, as well as for having caught her unaware in the first place.

Instead he'd waited until she turned to pace away from him, then he'd knocked gently on the frame of the doorway, so she would have the illusion that he'd only seen her back, not her expressive face, thus allowing her to feel that her privacy was intact.

The British nobleman had been astounded when she stiffened for only a second, then turned toward the door again… and there hadn't been a trace of that horrible pain to be seen on her beautiful features.

It wouldn't be his last experience with Marguerite's ability to control her expression in the blink of an eye, but it had been quite startling, leaving him wondering if he'd imagined it. After all, it was dark, only the moonlight to see by, so he could've been mistaken.

He'd stumbled through an awkward verbal explanation about having heard her pacing and being concerned that her injury might be causing her pain. Did she need anything?

Marguerite had coolly thanked him for his concern, allowed him to fetch her a glass of the herbal tea from the kitchen where Veronica had left it prepared for such a need, and assured him that she would be fine.

He'd believed her, since it was pretty much what he'd expected. The explanation that her wakefulness was a simple reaction to the day's pain had been so easy to accept as true!

But he reconsidered that theory when he was awakened by the same thing two nights later, and twice again the week after that, and then, having become sensitive to it, up to three or four times each week ever since. There had been very few exceptions, rare sequential nights when he was pretty sure she was able to sleep through the nights without interruption. But never, to his knowledge, had Marguerite slept soundly more than twenty nights in a row during the entire time since he'd known her. He'd kept careful, incredulous track of it.

Lord Roxton had learned a great deal about the vibrant beauty during these wakeful nights.

Looking back, he was surprised it had taken him so long to realize that she suffered from bad dreams. He knew the symptoms well enough from his own experience; Marguerite, however, dealt with her night terrors differently than he'd done. Sometimes she reacted with anger; her footfalls were sharper, more hurried, and sometimes she muttered under her breath, driving out memories of the nightmares with tirades about daily happenings that had irked her. If he knelt outside her doorway, he could make out curses in multiple languages that she bit out tightly in cold rage, her incredible green eyes flashing fire while she verbally vented her emotional turmoil, _sotto voce_. She might rant about being stranded on the Plateau, or about something specific that had irritated her that day - often Roxton, to his own amusement.

Other times he'd hear her pace for a while, and then it would go quiet. From cautious checking, he knew that at those times she'd be standing at the window, very, very quiet and still, shoulders bowed with some deep despair. She'd spend the rest of the night standing right there, or out on the balcony that ran around the outside of the tree house, without moving even an inch until the sun's rising began to lighten the sky for dawn. Only then could she seem to find sleep again.

Or, least often of all, her pacing was measured and weary, as if the weight of the dreams was too much to bear, inevitably followed by muffled sobs when she couldn't successfully suppress or erase the remnants of whatever had been conjured in her nightmare. This was the hardest for Roxton to hear without doing anything in response. His guardedly achieved perusal had revealed the slender beauty huddled in the farthest outside corner of her room, knees drawn up to her chest, head down and covered by her arms as they wrapped about her knees, so that her sobs were stifled by her own body. Clearly she'd selected that specific place in her room because it was furthest from everyone else's rooms, where it was least likely any noise she made would be heard by the other occupants of the tree house.

She obviously didn't want anyone to know about her nightmares and the distress they caused her. If he'd had any doubt about her reticence, witnessing the way she wakened from her bad dreams proved how strongly she felt about keeping this particular secret. After tensing during her sleep - the only indication he'd ever seen to show that she was having a nightmare - she abruptly opened her eyes and simply lay perfectly still. She never made a sound, not even a sharply in-drawn breath or a whisper of movement, until she had herself under control. After observing her for several months, Roxton had concluded that her most frequent response to her bad dreams was to recover in utter stillness; the pacing, the stargazing and the rarer weeping were only resorted to if the dreams were so bad that she couldn't handle them without a physical outlet.

Once he'd figured this out, he had watched and listened for an opportunity to reach out to her, wanting more and more as time passed to somehow help her bear them. But even when they were away from the tree house, camping out on extended explorations, Marguerite concealed her nightmares with incredible self-discipline and skill. It hadn't taken the hunter long to realize she'd trained herself to sleep lightly. He also noticed that she always volunteered for the later watches when she was most likely going to be awake anyway.

Roxton might have forced the issue long ago, if not for the extremes to which the mysterious lady went in order to conceal these nightmares from the others. He'd puzzled endlessly over her rationale, trying without success to find logic in the situation.

Marguerite continually used every feminine wile she possessed, not to mention all sorts of complaints and manipulations, to avoid chores or responsibilities she didn't want to be bothered with. She was incredibly adept at making up a vast variety of excuses for herself without the least sign of any shame or guilt at shirking her share of the work – but not once did she claim that she needed to rest rather than work, because of a bad night's sleep. Just one word to her comrades about the nightmares would have granted her all kinds of leeway for both oversleeping and for her afternoon naps. It would have been so simple for her to use these nightmares to her advantage! Even back in the beginning, before her housemates had begun to see through their mysterious comrade's prickly exterior façade, the others would've made allowances.

But when it came to the matters concerning her rest, Marguerite Krux chose not to speak up at all, either to defend or to excuse herself. She allowed her housemates believe that she was being lazy, slothful, or selfish, rather than even hint that she might have a genuine reason for needing to rest. She accepted Veronica's buckets of cold water, as she had accepted Roxton's initial scolding and ridicule. With apparent disdain for their opinions, Marguerite never said a word about the true reason why she was up half the night, or about how often she only fell asleep with sunrise, or why she really opted to catch those naps in the afternoon.

By the time he'd worked out these details, he'd known he wanted more than a mere liaison with the intriguing Miss Krux, and he'd known, too, that if he was to win her, she had to be able to trust him. So since the lady demonstrated how private she considered this issue to be by her silence even in the face of the others' derision, Roxton had refrained from saying anything about her nightmares, either.

By the end of their first year on the Plateau, he'd grown accustomed to the situation. He was aware of when it occurred, but it no longer kept him awake at night trying to watch over her. He simply drifted back to sleep, knowing that on the days following such nights Marguerite would be more withdrawn, more apt to complain, and more apt to scorn anyone else's attempts to be friendly.

He'd seen that a cup or two of her favorite morning beverage, coffee, was especially helpful to her temperament on these days, so Roxton always had a pot made for her before she meandered out of her bedroom – not up as early as the others, but not late enough to prompt Veronica to go for a bucket of water to wake her up.

Marguerite would do whatever chores were assigned to her and then disappear back into her room to read or sort through her gems, finally catching a nap late in the afternoon once after-lunch chores were completed. By the following day, the inscrutable woman would have slipped back into the tentatively friendly mode where they all caught more and more frequent glimpses of charm and warmth very different from the caustic, self-centered façade she habitually adopted.

None of the others understood why some days were inexplicably better than others for the prickly lady, but they'd all accepted that she wasn't going to offer any explanations. By then, they'd all learned that Marguerite's bark was worse than her bite… just as they knew that Marguerite wasn't the cold-hearted gold-digger than she chose to pretend so much of the time.

Since Roxton had realized the truth about the limited rest she actually enjoyed, he'd often marveled at her stamina and alertness. He was constantly impressed over how she managed to keep up with everyone else instead of wallowing in physical and mental exhaustion. He'd initially had concerns about whether she could stay alert enough not to adversely affect the group's safety. But although she complained and fussed and occasionally dawdled, she never failed to stay on top of things.

Perhaps it had something to do with her incredible intelligence, which they were still discovering more about as time passed. Maybe Marguerite Krux was simply so smart that she didn't need to be fully alert to handle life, even on the Plateau with its shifting planes of reality!

Nevertheless, even if she was handling it without endangering anyone else, the more he'd grown to care for her the more his heart ached for her suffering. He couldn't openly confront her about it, but he'd spent quite a bit of time attempting to gather information he might be able to use if a chance every offered itself.

Excellent hunter that he was, the skilled tracker still hadn't been able to uncover a pattern for what might provoke her nightmares. There didn't seem to be any correlation with their activities of the day in the lost world. Sometimes he thought she slept better after particularly stressful days spent running from dinosaurs or ape men and rescuing one another from one scrape or problem after another. Other times he wasn't so sure; she seemed to suffer the dreams even after perfectly quiet days like the ones this week, when nothing threatened the friends at all, except boredom!

But one thing John Roxton was sure of: This was the first time Marguerite had endured so many nights in a row of suffering from these nightmares. Every night for the last five nights he'd heard her soft pacing, and she hadn't been taking naps or catching that last bit of time between sunrise and breakfast to sleep either. The only sleep she could possibly be having was the hour or two each night from when she lay down on her bed until when a nightmare pulled her awake again.

He was becoming seriously worried about her as the stretch of disrupted evenings continued.

Roxton hadn't slept tonight, waiting, hoping that this time she'd be able to sleep. Marguerite may have fooled the others, but he'd been watching carefully as she pushed food around on her plate, and he knew she was barely eating. He'd blatantly spied on her when she vanished into her room after finishing her chores, and he knew she wasn't reading or messing with her jewels, either. She just kept pacing softly for hours - or standing motionless at her window, gazing out into the jungle. She hadn't even bothered to try to sneak off to the pond for a swim.

It had been futile to hope for a decent sleep for her tonight, though. She'd barely closed her eyes for half an hour before she'd been back up, pacing with slow, weary footsteps for the better part of the night. And now she'd gone up to the balcony.

Lord John Roxton couldn't stand watching - well, listening to it, being aware of it - any longer without doing something to help the lady he loved. But what could he do without angering her?

*****

Marguerite watched the night sky fade to dawn… again. The stars vanished one by one in preparation for the gray-blue misty pre-sunrise that would herald the start of another day in the lost world. Though it was still several hours until dawn, it was already warm, with no sign of a breeze to help lighten the heat that would arrive with the rising sun. Listlessly, she let her head drop back against the wall.

No rest, no energy, no way to gather strength for another day. No hope. No defense. Even this balcony, her favorite place of refuge, offered no respite. Usually when she couldn't summon sleep or find an escape, this balcony served to soothe and calm, and even rejuvenate, with its quiet, restful vista over the plateau.

But the dreams were too powerful, too much for even the stars to refresh her and clear her mind.

Somehow, she needed to find the strength to pull herself together in the next two hours or so, before the others began to wake. But for the moment, she hadn't even the energy to rise from this little niche between the rail and the wall.

So tired…

So afraid to sleep…

Would it never end?!

"Couldn't sleep either?"

Her head snapped to the right. "Roxton!"

He stepped further onto the balcony and leaned on the rail, studying the scenery below them. "Sorry to intrude, Marguerite. I like to come up here now and then. Bad dreams, occasionally." He was careful not to look over at her as he drawled his words with a carefully-calculated hint of insecure hesitation. She'd often offered a comforting shoulder to him over the last couple years. Maybe, just maybe, she would want to reach out to help him, if she thought he was in need of company. If he could only get her to talk with him, it could be the key to opening the door on this debilitating secret of hers.

As he'd hoped, his uncertain confession caught her attention. "Really? Bad dreams?"

She rose to her feet, slowly, with effort instead of her usual graceful fluidity, he noticed with a pang.

The hunter nodded as she moved to his side at the rail. After all, he'd told the truth. It was just that it was her bad dreams that woke him these days, not his own nightmares. "Yeah." He continued to look out at the jungle. "It's restful here, in the quiet of the night. Soothing."

"It is oddly calm at night, isn't it?" she agreed, following his gaze out over the vista before them.

Cautiously he ventured, "I know you had the balcony first, but do you mind if I stay out here to watch the sunrise? Or would that be invading your privacy?"

She glanced over at his familiar profile, touched by the bit of wistfulness she heard in his cultured voice. He wasn't asking her to leave, she noticed, but was asking if he could stay and join her. Bad dreams… How often had she wondered if company might not help her to shake off the darkness after a night's visions had left her mind and emotions reeling? Perhaps Roxton, too, hoped he might benefit from having another presence to soften the after effects of his own bad dream.

"No, I don't mind if you stay," she said quietly.

Roxton gravely nodded his thanks. Good, she was willing to accept his presence. Now all he had to do was find a way to get her to relax enough to talk about her dreams, or to actually sleep. She was so tense as she stood beside him that he could nearly feel it. "Don't you wish it was always this quiet on the Plateau?" he offered with a tentative smile.

Marguerite considered. "Not always. But sometimes."

He kept her chatting about casual things for a couple more minutes, then stretched slowly and glanced around. "Want to pull up a seat?"

Since she was unutterably weary, she nodded.

The tall, dark-haired man disappeared into the heavily-shadowed interior of the tree house, and returned with a bamboo and canvas sling chair made for three people. Perhaps it was a sign of her weariness that she neither questioned nor argued with about him bringing only one chair.

They settled onto it, side by side, and continued chatting about their lives on the plateau.

Roxton couldn't find an opening to bring up the dreams again, and gradually fell silent, hoping that at least his presence was helping. It was the first time in days that she'd let him close enough to touch her, although he didn't think it wise to press his luck by reaching for her hand yet. He contented himself with simply sitting side by side, arms brushing lightly.

Then Marguerite herself reopened the topic he wanted to discuss, asking casually if he was feeling any better. He gave her a quick look, and found her green eyes looking up at him with gentle sympathy. Oh yeah, "his" bad dreams!

His heart warmed as he suddenly realized that his remarkable lady was sitting shoulder to shoulder with him on this chair because she was setting aside her own pain in order to reach out and comfort him! She never ceased to amaze him! He couldn't help smiling tenderly at her. "Yes, Marguerite, I'm feeling better. Thank you. I appreciate you being here with me." Suddenly inspired, he added, "You know, a few years ago I couldn't imagine ever being free of the nightmares, I had them so often. But these days they hardly come at all."

She didn't look away. "Really?"

"Yes. I don't know if I could have gone on much longer the way I was. It was Ned who helped first. He heard me cry out one night, and afterwards the insolent pup wouldn't let me alone until I talked to him about the dreams." He chuckled, remembering how he'd almost punched the younger man right in the face several times for his persistent interference. "He drove me nuts… but he was right. It did help to talk about the dreams." He paused before adding, "You helped me, too."

"Me?"

"Yes. Don't you remember our conversations on those nights on the trail, like the time you were stung by the scorpion? You talked me through one of my roughest times, back then." He reached over to stroke her cheek tenderly with a gentle finger. "I'm pretty lucky, you know, to have such friends. If Ned hadn't convinced me to talk to him, I'd still be playing it tough, trying to keep all that pain inside. And that, my dear," he deliberately added a touch of regretful self-mockery to his tone, "Did not make for a very nice Lord Roxton."

"What do you mean?" she asked curiously.

Careful not to let his delight show in his expression – it was really working! – he shrugged sheepishly. "After particularly bad nights, I wasn't too easy to live with." It was the truth, and maybe he could use that fact to help her see that what he'd gone through applied to her situation as well. "I have the devil's own temper at times, as I'm sure you've noticed. You were on the receiving end of my temper quite a few times, especially early in our stay here on the Plateau."

"So it wasn't always my fault?" she asked in surprise. "You didn't really think I was as bad as you were always saying I was?" She didn't realize her expression revealed the pain the memory of his frequent scolding still caused, even after all this time.

Roxton winced at the realization that his scolding had hurt the young heiress, despite her mask of indifference to the others' opinions. Genuinely regretful this time, he shook his head and assured her, "Not always, Marguerite."

She smiled and said softly, "I'm glad."

He reached for her hand and was encouraged when she allowed him take it without pulling away.

Then she asked quietly, "So you think talking about bad dreams helps? How?"

Perfect! She was interested! "Well, I think it's cathartic. Take my brother's death; in my dreams, I was always murdering him. But, as you pointed out when we talked one night, as well as numerous other times, I shot the Great Ape that was killing him. I didn't murder William. I still struggle with feelings of responsibility and the memories of him dying in my arms as he did, but talking it through with Ned was the first step, I think, in defusing the power the dreams had over my life. And talking with you made a difference, too."

She nodded thoughtfully.

"It's kind of like a wound," he continued. "If you try to ignore it, it only festers and becomes worse. But if you clean it out and medicate it, you heal. It might still hurt, but it's not going to kill you."

"I see what you mean." Marguerite was silent a moment before she asked, "Wasn't it difficult to reveal your innermost feelings by telling someone else about your dreams?"

"A little," he admitted candidly, meeting her intense gaze without hesitation. "The hardest thing for me was that it felt like I was being a coward or a weakling somehow, by not being able to deal with it on my own. But I've come to realize that's where talking to a friend is especially good, because it's not showing weakness to go to a friend when you need help." It didn't take any great measure of genius to see how Marguerite could apply this topic to herself. "Ned never made me feel that he looked down on me for having the nightmares. You didn't either." Roxton paused, then asked, "Do you think less of me, knowing I suffered these nightmares?"

"No, of course not, John!" she responded immediately, indignantly, then, more subdued, "Actually, John, I respect you all the more because you didn't let them control you."

He squeezed her hand in thanks. "But that's today, Marguerite. The dreams did control me before I finally started talking to Ned about them. It was only gradually that they lost their power over me. I still have bad dreams sometimes, but I don't have to fear them anymore, and I don't get anywhere near so angry after having them. I'm sure you're glad for that part!" he added, teasing.

She smiled, nodding again before her smile faded and she said tentatively, "I guess you've been on the receiving end of my temper for pretty much the same reason."

Yes! She'd stiffened slightly and he noticed that her gaze skittered away from his as she spoke, but she had opened the door to talking about her own nightmares! "You have bad dreams, too, eh?" was all he said, casually, careful not to show too much eagerness, but also not to sound disinterested.

Marguerite nodded, stealing a quick keen look at him from beneath her lashes and relaxing just a little as she found acceptance instead of derision.

"Care for a sounding board, my dear?" he asked her gently. "I'd be glad to listen, as Ned listened to me, and just as you've listened to me in the past."

Marguerite nodded slowly, now meeting his steady gaze. "I think I'd appreciate that, John."

*****

Roxton had been in the middle of relating a long hunting story - in a carefully moderate tone - when Marguerite's eyes finally closed. He kept it up until her body had totally relaxed and she slid to rest against him. He shifted to ease her across his lap, figuring that drawing her into his arms was the ultimate test of whether she was truly asleep.

How Marguerite hated to reveal any weakness, any need for help or comfort, even now, after all they had been through together and how much closer the group had grown!

She'd been making great strides in developing more intimate friendships with each of her housemates, being more open with them all. But that had been before this series of sleepless nights had caused her to withdraw even from John Roxton, the man she'd come to love - though she had yet to admit her love to him, and perhaps to herself as well.

And now that she'd spent several hours telling him about her nightmares, opening herself up to him in ways she never had before, he couldn't even begin to guess how she'd respond to waking up in his arms. It was as likely that she'd blast him with both barrels, her sharp tongue and her painfully persistent cold shoulder, as that she would simply accept his ministration to her with gratitude. But even if she chose to retreat behind her protective walls again, it would be worth it just to know that she'd finally gotten some decent sleep.

He looked down at the woman now ensconced in his arms, her head cushioned on his shoulder, her long dark curls tumbled loosely about her face and shoulders, her thick dark lashes sweeping her pale cheeks as she slept.

Yes, whatever price Marguerite might exact would be worth this precious time holding her in his arms like this, watching her actually sleep. Only when she slept did her layers of protective façade vanish, exposing the true vulnerability of the beautiful lady who had been forced to harden herself to be able to survive alone. It wasn't a sight her comrades were permitted to see very often.

Cuddled safely against his warm body within the circle of his arms, Marguerite slept on.

Lord Roxton hushed the others as they woke with the oncoming daylight and came upstairs into the central living area of the tree house.

In the morning sunshine, without Marguerite's deliberately-donned attitude of self-assurance, the other explorers saw what only Roxton had noticed over the last couple weeks: the translucent look to her pale skin and the fragility brought on by too little food and sleep. Startled, they each looked at John in concern, but he simply put a finger to his lips, asking for their indulgence so the slumbering brunette could continue to sleep.

To their amazement - but not to Roxton's - Marguerite continued to sleep the clock around, into the middle of the next day.

As the first day passed and the second began with the slender brunette still asleep in Roxton's arms, the others were more and more troubled, but John assured them, in whispered conversations, that she was not feverish or ill. He insisted that she only needed to sleep.

He continued to hold her almost the entire time, managing to catch some sleep himself, staying on the sling chair instead of risking waking her by carrying her back down to her room. She hardly stirred the times he needed to shift position while holding her on his lap, but Roxton was unwilling to chance the much longer disturbance of taking her down the steps into her room.

Challenger rigged an umbrella the first morning to screen them from the sun's direct afternoon rays. Ned unearthed interesting books for the hunter to read when he wasn't dozing. Veronica brought Roxton his meals and drinks, although he chose to ingest only enough fluids to slake his thirst so that he wouldn't need to make more frequent trips to the outhouse. The first time he had to ease her from his lap, it left her uneasily restless and not even one of the others staying with her could settle her. It seemed that Marguerite could only sleep soundly when she was in Roxton's arms.

Each of the others tiptoed carefully around the tree house, periodically checking on the slumbering heiress with concerned wonder. Roxton wouldn't tell them why she was sleeping so heavily, ignoring their curiosity and increasing worry over Marguerite. In fact, they hovered nearby so often that he finally waved them all off in irritation early the second afternoon, whispering a suggestion that they go work in the garden for a couple hours.

So no one else was in the tree house when her thick, dark lashes finally fluttered open in the late afternoon. She gave a little sigh as she inhaled, recognizing his scent without actually focusing her vision. "John," she whispered, eyelids closing again as she snuggled closer to his warm body.

He grinned. "Good afternoon, my dear," he said tenderly, smoothing her silky hair down her back.

"Mmm." Then she tensed. "Roxton?"

She'd realized he was holding her. He braced himself for the oncoming storm he half expected.

Her eyes flashed open and she pushed away from his chest in alarm, only to take in the fact that she was also on his lap - in her nightclothes - with a light blanket tucked around her - on the balcony?! Her confusion quickly changed to remembrance. Then she met his tender gaze, her uncertainty clear. "I slept?"

Roxton nodded. "You needed it badly," he said lightly. "And I didn't want to disturb you by moving you, so we just stayed right here."

"You held me. I slept."

"Yes," he confirmed, warily watching her and trying to anticipate her reaction.

Her brow puckered. "You held me, and I slept?" she repeated yet again, incredulously.

Roxton nodded yet again. "You were exhausted, Marguerite," he pointed out, his own brow furrowing at her increasingly stunned expression. "Of course you slept."

"You don't understand. I never sleep when a man is holding me. Not ever." She shook her head, staring at him. "But I slept." She still wasn't entirely at ease with having told him about her bad dreams, though it had apparently helped. She blinked as she suddenly realized that she'd slept without a nightmare! Stunned, she blurted out, "I didn't even have a – a dream."

He knew she'd been going to say nightmare, but had switched words at the last moment for the sake of connotation. Roxton pushed aside the sharp pang of jealousy that had struck him at the thought of other men holding her… and the sudden fierce rage at whoever had taught her that it wasn't safe for her to sleep in a man's arms. Instead, he focused on the current issue and smiled down at her, suggesting, "Maybe you trust me."

She shook her head, lip curling. "No man can be trusted," was her immediate, forceful, automatic, and matter-of-fact statement. Then her eyes widened and her tone wobbled as she whispered, "No, that's not true, is it? You, Ned, Summerlee, Challenger… You can all be trusted, can't you?"

At the suddenly very vulnerable look in her silver-green eyes, his arms tightened protectively around her. But he could see she was skittish, not ready to deal with the implications of this sudden revelation, so he quirked a brow at her and goaded with a smirk, "You're just figuring that out after all this time? And I thought you were so smart!"

It worked. Distracted from the initial startling idea that she could trust Roxton even with this, she was about to respond to his taunting tone with her eyes flashing in indignation, but instead her attention was caught by his last comment. "You do?"

"Do what?" he blinked.

"Do you really think I'm smart?" she asked, studying him with a curiously vulnerable expression again. Then she seemed to realize what she was asking, and her face changed as she backpedaled. "I mean, naturally! I'm far too smart for the likes of you, Lord Roxton!" And just as quickly, that haughty demeanor vanished, and she shook her head. Ruefully, blushing, she confessed, "I'm sorry, John. I'm… confused. Give me a second here…" She dropped her forehead against his shoulder and closed her eyes, brow furrowed as she concentrated on something, one hand playing absently with the buttons of his shirt.

Everything was so muddled in her mind… John had held her… it was late afternoon, obviously, if she was envisioning the condition of the lighting correctly now that her eyes were closed. She'd slept, soundly, for hours. John had held her. John could be trusted. Of course John could be trusted! But if it was so late in the day - why would John and the others let her sleep like this? It was uncharacteristic. She pulled back from his chest, her eyes flying open in sudden panicked horror. "They know!"

"No," he said promptly, understanding instantly what she referred to and shaking his head. "I didn't tell them. What you shared with me about your nightmares was in confidence, Marguerite. I wouldn't speak of it to anyone else. That would be betraying the trust you placed in me."

The beautiful brunette stared up at him, unable to make sense of it. "But you could have - " she stopped, eyes widening. She paled at the thought of what might have happened, and then flushed as she realized that this man would never betray her like that. She chewed on her lower lip in confusion, studying him again from beneath her lashes.

"What?" he asked gently, seeing that the anger was gone. "What could I have done, Marguerite?"

She swallowed hard and looked away quickly. But she was no coward, so she soon met his eyes again, touched by the concern she found there. "You could have laughed at me," she whispered. "You could have made a fool of me. You could have told the others. But you didn't."

"No, I didn't tell the others. Obviously they know something is happening, since they know I've been holding you like this, out here on the balcony. They're very concerned for you. See, Challenger put up this umbrella yesterday so the sun wouldn't be too hot for us -"

"_Yesterday?!_" she gasped.

He hadn't thought it possible for her to tense more, but she did. Lord Roxton braced himself for potential rage and answered her honestly. "Yes, you slept all day yesterday, all night last night, and most of today."

Instead of anger, there was only dawning wonder, and then a sheen of tears that filled her uncertain eyes. "All that time? And you held me? And no one woke me?" she whispered, deeply shaken.

Just exactly what was it that she couldn't understand here? It didn't seem that complicated to Roxton. "Well, you weren't looking so good, my dear," he explained hesitantly. "You haven't been eating, and once you were asleep even the others could see how badly you needed to get some real rest. We all care about you, you know."

"All of you," she repeated faintly, swallowing over an inexplicable lump in her throat.

He nodded quickly. "Yes. They know that you must have needed to sleep very badly. See all of this? They've been taking care of us really well." He showed her the blanket, the drinks and books sitting on the little stand Veronica had moved here beside the sling chair, and gestured to the umbrella again as well. "Good old George even refrained from blowing up his lab while you were sleeping," he quipped, hoping to coax a smile from her.

"All of you," she repeated once more. "Why?" There was no answering smile from the bewildered beauty still sitting on his lap.

He frowned down at her and answered in gentle rebuke, "Because we love you."

Marguerite closed her eyes again, and turned her face to his shoulder. This time her hand gathered a fistful of his shirt, clenching it tightly. "You love me," she echoed.

"Yeah. We love you," he confirmed flatly. "Marguerite, what is it?" he asked gently, stroking her hair smoothly over her shoulders with tender fingers.

She shook her head against his chest. "Don't ask me now, John. I think I need to sleep more. I can't think straight," she said, voice muffled against him.

He cocked his head, concerned. "Yeah, sure, Marguerite. Go back to sleep. I'll keep holding you. Just relax, and go back to sleep."

Marguerite did just that, somewhat to his bemusement.

Now, what had just happened? It didn't make any sense. He replayed it in his mind. Was she angry? No, he didn't think so. Confused? Yes. Had she said anything that gave any clue to what was going on in her mind? He didn't think so, though the bit about having thought he would make a fool of her, laugh at her, that had to have come from somewhere. And the part about never sleeping in a man's arms - well, how had she managed that?! After all, she'd been married how many times?

He decided he had more questions now than he'd had before she woke up, and hoped the next time she awakened would prove to be more satisfying!

*****

Marguerite opened her eyes, once again realizing she was laying in the arms of the man who had become her closest friend over the last three years. It was dark out, but not completely. She was familiar with this shade of night. It was the pre-dawn light that she often saw from this balcony.

John was asleep; she could hear the beating of his heart beneath her ear, feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against her cheek. His arms were looped securely about her, and the light blanket was tucked around both of them.

She'd slept at least another twelve hours, she estimated. Poor John, she thought, remembering her words the last time she'd awakened. She must have really confused the darling man with that rambling.

She was hungry, she realized, and very carefully slid off John's lap. She padded barefoot into the kitchen and grabbed the first thing that she found - fruit, of course. There was always plenty of fruit on the Plateau. She poured herself some water as she ate the fruit, then cut a slice of Veronica's fresh baked bread from the loaf sitting covered on the table. Mmm. Delicious!

Savoring every bite, she gathered more of the same onto a plate and carried it back to John, curling up at his side and tugging the blanket over her legs. Leaning comfortably against him, she ate absently as she watched the sun begin to rise over the Plateau.

Funny, she'd just had more rest than she could remember having had since before the Great War, and she still felt tired! Maybe she would just rest her eyes until John woke up…

*****

Roxton was awakened by Veronica's hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes, instantly alert, and looked into her smiling blue eyes. She pointed, and his gaze followed her finger. Then he grinned, too.

Marguerite was sound asleep, but with a plate on her lap and a glass balanced precariously between her hip and Roxton's. She must have awakened and gotten up, but she'd also returned to his side! And she had eaten! These were definitely good signs!

Veronica carefully removed the glass, which was nearly empty anyway, and the plate, which had only a finger-breadth of bread left on it, and took them away.

Roxton debated waking her, but decided against it. Marguerite was only just beginning to get a healthy glow back to her fair skin, the translucence fading under the remedy of her healthy rest. And there was a peaceful look about her that he didn't want to disturb. No, they should just let her continue to sleep as much as she could, until she was ready to rejoin them.

He stayed with her, though, still suspecting that it was his presence that was enabling her to relax so fully. The next few hours proved to him that his suspicion had been correct.

Marguerite dozed on and off - mostly on - through another whole day straight before she was rested enough to stay awake. During her brief periods of wakefulness, she always ate and drank something. Then she came back to Roxton again to cuddle up beside him and fall back asleep.

The one time he wasn't there, having gone to relieve himself while she was in the kitchen, he returned to find that her green-gray eyes were slightly panicked as she looked around for him. Once she saw the stalwart hunter coming off the elevator, the shadows in her eyes vanished almost instantly, but when she took refuge in his arms again he noticed she was trembling.

Roxton realized with some alarm that he was Marguerite's safety net. Something was still keeping her from feeling secure. He thought about it as she drifted back to sleep in his arms, but couldn't find a reason for her to feel uneasy.

The next morning when she woke, she didn't doze off again, but stayed in his arms as they watched the sunrise together. They could hear the others rising for the day, emerging from their rooms and greeting one another in the kitchen.

Roxton tenderly smoothed Marguerite's hair and asked softly, "Ready to rejoin the others, my dear?" He smiled encouragingly at her when he saw her hesitation. And in that instant it all came together in his mind. It had been struggling with the concept that each of her house mates loved her that had been a stumbling block when she first woke, he remembered. She'd also feared his laughter at her expense. Ah! This had to be what was behind her confusion and uncertainty. "Marguerite, they love you. We're family. Family doesn't make fun of family over bad dreams. You trusted me and I didn't let you down, did I?" He spoke quietly, so the others wouldn't overhear them.

Marguerite slowly shook her head. "No. You didn't let me down."

"Neither will they. Just give them the chance to prove it. You can trust them, too, just as you can trust me. You'll see, Marguerite."

She didn't seem so sure. But she nodded and let Roxton help her to her feet, then squared her slender shoulders. She ran her fingers through her hair and gave him a questioning look.

He grinned widely. "You look just fine. Beautiful as ever," he assured her, well aware that looking good was a first line of self-defense in the life she'd led before joining this expedition.

She wrinkled her nose at him, self-consciously. "Really?"

"Would I dare lie to you about it, when one look in a mirror would tell you the truth?" he teased. Then he let his smile fade. "You look terrific, Marguerite." And he lowered his head to hers and kissed her tenderly. When he drew back, she was pink-cheeked, breathless… and happy, if he could judge by the glow in her lovely eyes. "Ready to face the lions now, my dear?" he quizzed lightly as he offered her his arm in escort.

Marguerite smiled up at him, nodded, and placed her hand on his arm, turning with him to go in.

The others greeted her pleasantly when they saw her moving into the kitchen, escorted by Roxton to join the group for breakfast. They could see, as John did, the healthy tone to her skin and the new energy that infused her after her long rest. There was also something else new… something almost akin to shyness on her lovely face.

"I wanted to thank you all… for everything," she offered quietly with a smile that seemed somewhat tentative to her startled friends. "I know letting me sleep like that meant you each had tons of extra work to do… not that there's so much to covering my work," she noted humbly, "But it must have been taxing to handle all of John's chores while he was tending to me."

They exchanged startled looks at the gracious acknowledgment of their contribution to her welfare. Ned responded first, with a friendly grin. "Our pleasure, Marguerite. We're just glad to see that you're feeling better. You look wonderful! Maybe we should let you sleep for days on end more often," he quipped, his blue eyes twinkling affectionately.

"Hey, let's not go overboard," Veronica admonished lightly, then smiled at her dark-haired friend. "Although he's right; it is good to see you looking well, Marguerite."

"Indeed it is!" George Challenger agreed heartily. "And it's a splendid way to start the day, all of us together again at the table!" He smiled broadly at Marguerite and offered her first choice from a platter of pancakes - a generous gesture not lost on the heiress, who was well aware it was his favorite breakfast food. "Come, let's eat!"

Marguerite relaxed more as breakfast progressed and none of the others showed any inclination to pry about the cause of the recent events. Instead, they were filling her in on all the things they'd been doing while she was sleeping. John joined in occasionally, teasing Ned about his efforts to keep up with all the chores, and making plans with Veronica to go on a hunt to replenish their depleted meat supplies. There was a lot of joking about Challenger's incredible silence in the lab these last few days.

He sheepishly admitted that in order to prevent himself from possibly creating any explosions that might disturb Marguerite, he'd temporarily stopped all his experiments. However, he hastily assured the blushing heiress, the time had not been wasted by any means. He'd updated all his journals, and made preparations to start several new and vital experiments as soon as his favorite lab assistant was ready to resume her work with him.

In fact, each of them had a project that they'd set aside until Marguerite was "better" and able to help. Veronica had sewing that needed Marguerite's expert hand to complete. Ned was waiting for her latest editing of another set of Plateau stories - although how it had come about that she'd become his editor was something he couldn't quite remember, when he stopped to think about it! And John was sighing and lamenting that he'd have to wait until all that was done before he could steal her away to have her look at the ivory handle on one of his Webleys to see if she could fix a crack he thought was developing.

As Veronica and Ned began to clear the table and Challenger vanished to his lab, John walked with Marguerite to her bedroom door. Amused, he teased, "You see, my dear, the truth is that it's you who is the heart and soul of our little group. They managed to do all of my chores just fine, didn't they? It's the things you do with each us that weren't able to be done by anyone else. You're quite irreplaceable." He dropped a gentle kiss on her forehead, and left her looking a trifle bemused in her doorway.

Roxton strolled to his own room, whistling cheerfully, then paused to look back at her, quirk a brow, and add, "Just let me know if you want to share a night watch again. I'm always available!" With a cheeky grin and a wink, the handsome hunter vanished into his bedroom to gather his guns to be oiled.

Marguerite stared after him, then smiled slowly. "Could this day get any better?" she softly asked herself. Turning, she went into her own room to fetch her sewing box. She would offer explanations to the others, individually, as opportunity presented itself - probably sooner with Ned than the others, since he was bound to be unable to resist asking outright!

And when the next nightmares came, she knew now that she wouldn't have to face them alone again. Even if John was away, she would be all right. He'd been right. She was loved.

*****


End file.
